


Octopus Shawarma and Other Clues Clint Barton Has Lost Control of His Life

by LinguisticJubilee



Series: The Cephalopod Who Loved Me [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Comic Book Science, Crack, Fix-It, It's not tentacle porn I promise, M/M, Octopus!Phil, Poor Woobie, The Octopus Strikes Back, Torture, with sudden and unexpected ~feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguisticJubilee/pseuds/LinguisticJubilee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson used to be an octopus.  Clint Barton used to be alone.   If Clint’s honest with himself, he might be having the harder time adjusting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purely Coincidental Octopus Motifs

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a series of inter-connected stories that follow the events of [Something Fishy.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/560593) Any chapter can be skipped to avoid triggers. There is a blanket warning for graphic violence on all chapters, with the additional warnings of:
> 
> Chapter 2: depiction of torture  
> Chapter 4: frank discussion of mortal peril  
> Chapter 5: perceived character death, with the grief and mourning it entails, followed by a fix-it
> 
> If you're concerned, please let me know, and please be safe. <3 Above all, this is a very, very silly fic, and everything has a happy ending.
> 
> And lastly, as a visual aid, today's class will be discussing the [Day Octopus.](http://miraimages.photoshelter.com/image/I0000xE6L28P_FZ0)

Clint Barton has been hunting the Skeevy Seamonster Cult and Mafia for over a year, following Coulson down the rabbit hole of genetically-modified international crime lords and masters of collective obsessive-personality disorder. He’s currently rifling through an abandoned storage facility in Austria looking for (he swears to God) a six-inch bust of Jules Verne. 

Clint would like to say this is the most impossibly batshit thing he's ever experienced, but aquarium octopus becoming SHIELD agent will always take the cake.

He’s examining what appears to be a weaponized singing bass when he hears the scariest thing Phil Coulson has ever uttered.

“Fuck.”

Clint freezes. “Everything alright, boss?” he says into the comm, trying to sound calm and resist the urge to sprint to Coulson’s location. It’s not that he’s crushing on Coulson or anything--he can take a hint, _jesus_ \--it’s just that these past few months have been kinda fucking great and Clint doesn’t want to lose that, okay?

“I’m uninjured but unable to fire my weapon. Agent Pham, remain at your post. Agent Barton, meet me at the scale model of the Lunar Module.” Pham’s out in the security van watching the entrance. Clint’s pretty sure it’s Coulson’s job to be the one in the security van, but he’s also pretty sure Coulson still hasn’t gotten over how awesome having a spine is. 

Clint weaves through the giant piles of forgotten knick-knacks and reaches the boxy black and yellow fake spacecraft. He rounds the corner and stops dead. “Jesus fuck.” 

Coulson is sitting against a wooden crate, his legs splayed out in front of him and a metal box the size of a paperback in his lap. But Clint is really most preoccupied at the moment with the giant red and white tentacles that seemed to have replaced Coulson’s arms. He stares for a good minute, then looks up at Coulson’s face. “Need a hand, sir?”

Coulson raises a tentacle and looks at the suckers appraisingly. “Believe it or not,” he says wryly, “this actually explains more than it doesn’t.”

“Oh, really? Because from over here--”

Pham coughs delicately over the comms. “While I hate to interrupt what’s fixing to be some really good flirting,” she drawls, her voice cheerful, “will one of you fine gentlemen please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Clint fumbles, because he’s not flirting, did he _not just say_ this was not a crush thing? Coulson, thankfully, just lets the reference pass. “A device recovered from storage has aggravated my medical condition.” 

Clint snorts. “So that’s what we’re calling it? A medical condition?”

“Yes, in that it’s a condition that landed me in medical.” 

“A crazy guy rewrote your genetic code to make you an octopus.” 

“Time out,” Pham says, tension leaking into her voice. “I’m choosing to ignore that for a moment. Can we have this lovers’ spat outside please?” 

“Agreed, Agent Ph--”

Clint hears three things all at once: the shatter of breaking glass, Pham’s scream through the comms, and the ring of a bullet as it flies past his ear. He reacts, diving on top of Coulson and pulling them behind a crate. 

“Pham, report!” Coulson yells into his comm. He yells other things too, “backup” and “Vienna,” but Clint puts them out of his mind and focuses on the scary guys advancing on them. He spares a glance from behind the crate: three goons by the Lunar Module, two by the north entrance, and three further away. He takes a breath, then jumps up and fires in quick succession. They fall like dominos in black jumpsuits.

“All clear, boss.” He looks down. Coulson’s watching him, a small smile tugging at his lips. Clint shifts his weight, self-conscious. “What?” 

Coulson shakes his head. “Help me up?” He asks, extending a tentacle, curling the other one around the metal box.

Clint tugs him to his feet and they run out of the warehouse and towards the van. Four thugs are lying by the van’s back door, shot in the chest. Pham’s sitting propped against the open door, both hands pressed against a bullet wound in her thigh. “Ya’ll took your sweet time,” she accuses faintly. “Where the hell are your hands?” 

They hear a crash behind them. “Barton, drive,” Coulson orders, hopping in the back. “Take Pham’s gun.” 

Clint grabs it, shuts the van doors, and sprints to the driver’s seat. He jumps in and starts the van right as three black sedans turn the corner behind them. Clint accelerates away, studying their pursuers in the side mirror, and _isn’t that interesting? _“These guys mean business, boss,” Clint calls. “They’ve got different suits the others, and they look nastier.”__

__“Just keep us alive, Barton, back up’s on its way.”_ _

__Clint spins the wheel, taking a sharp left. He sticks the gun out the drivers window and shoots out one car’s tires. He reels in his hand a split second before the side mirror is shattered by a bullet. Clint swerves. “So. What exactly does this explain?”_ _

__“Excuse me?”_ _

__Clint spares a glance in the rearview mirror at Coulson, who’s pressing a cloth against Pham’s thigh. “You said that this explains more than it doesn’t. What does it explain?”_ _

__Pham groans and Coulson stares at him incredulously. “Really. You want to do this now?”_ _

__“Yes.” Clint does, he really does. He has no idea why, except that his bullet-riddled van is being chased by evil bad guys and Clint may have learned to call him Coulson instead of Phil and to bury his feelings deep under a mountain of sarcasm but Phil Coulson will never stop being the person he trusts the most. Clint just really needs to hear his voice right now._ _

__Coulson sighs. “These are the facts as we know them. Goodwin injected nanoparticles into my bloodstream, then activated them by exposing me to radiation from a special machine. Essentially, the nanotech tricked my cells into believing they were octopus cells. SHIELD used the machine to deactivate the nanotech, then removed it from my system.”_ _

__Clint huffs a laugh, taking another erratic turn. “What? Did they say ‘good enough for government work’ and leave a few in there?”_ _

__“Perhaps. Or perhaps my cells can’t unlearn how to be an octopus.”_ _

__“And what does the hoarder pit from hell explain?” Clint fires another two rounds out the window._ _

__“Goodwin’s experiment required an incredible amount of radiation, a very specific cocktail of gamma rays, ultraviolet light, and microwaves. He would have needed another organization to supply it. I believe that the metal box I pulled out of the crate is a battery storing radiation. This one is probably malfunctioning, which is why it affected me.”_ _

__“And you reckoned,” Pham wheezes, “you’d just bring a metal box leaking dangerous radiation along with you?”_ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“For the love of--”_ _

__“Quiet, quiet!” Clint yells, and straining, can hear the beautiful sound of sirens. Seconds later, five SHIELD vehicles race up the opposite side of the road. The bad guys’ cars scatter at the sight, and Clint leisurely pulls off to the side of the road and lets his head hit the steering wheel._ _

__“Oh, thank fuck,” Pham says, her voice sounding wet. “Not that I don’t love you both, but someone needs to tend to my leg who has actual fingers.”_ _

__***_ _

__Clint and Coulson are playing the world’s strangest game of Texas Hold ‘Em in a back room of the local hospital. Coulson’s still tentacled, and the best solution SHIELD: Austria could come up with was sticking him out of sight until transport can be made to New York._ _

__Coulson suction cups his cards and flips them over. “Flush. I win again.”_ _

__Clint scowls and peels the cards off Coulson’s tentacle. “You’re cheating. I just haven’t figured out how yet.”_ _

__“I’m sure you’ll solve it soon.”_ _

__Clint snorts but keeps his eyes on the cards in his hand. He shuffles for a moment, thinking, then glances at Coulson. “This other organization. The one with the batteries. Do you think they could be another sea-obsessed cult?”_ _

__Coulson frowns. “What makes you say that?”_ _

__Clint hesitates. It’s been a year, but he’s still not used to the idea that Phil Coulson, scarily competent senior agent and all around bad-ass, wants to hear the opinion of Clint Barton, dipshit with a bow. He looks back down at the cards. “It’s just that the guys in the car were wearing this odd insignia. It looked like an octopus with a skull for a head, but it only had six tentacles.”_ _

__There’s a very long silence, and Clint looks up. “...Coulson?”_ _

__“Fuck.”_ _

__Which is how Clint Barton gets the honor of discovering that HYDRA still exists._ _


	2. Highly Unorthodox Reconaissance Techniques

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for torture.

HYDRA goons are fucking stupid. This is the lesson Clint has learned in the years since escaping from the Hoarder Pit of Hell. These particular goons are no exception. Through sheer dumb luck they’d managed to capture Clint and Natasha after an op gone wrong. However, instead of taking full advantage of a restrained Hawkeye and Black Widow, the Fucking Stupid HYDRA Goons have so far been limiting themselves to shouting _Where is Captain America?_ while beating the crap out of them.

Clint has had a lot of time to reflect on the stupidity of HYDRA Goons. About two hours ago, their captors had dragged Natasha out of the dank cell. In that time, Clint has scrutinized every cinderblock, assessed and rejected all potential escape routes, and absolutely has not thought about what they might be doing to his partner. Instead, he chooses to get offended. Clint may not be SHIELD’s favorite employee, but he hangs around in the vents enough to know some pretty damning secrets. And Natasha is a treasure trove of dirty laundry. She even knows crazy mysterious Russian shit. Is it wrong to want something worthy of resisting torture, rather than the nonexistent location of some guy who’s been dead for more years than this squad has IQ points?

Clint is startled out of his HYDRA-bashing by the squeal of the steel door opening against its hinges. Natasha is thrown in, landing with a thud that makes Clint’s blood boil. He limps over to Natasha and yells obscenities at their captors, as is his duty. 

“-- you armpit-licking asswipes!” 

“Clint,” Natasha croaks, pushing herself up with one hand. 

He kneels down, ignoring the throbbing in his ribs. “Hey, Tasha,” he says brightly. He places an arm underneath her and supports her until she’s sitting upright, leaning against the wall. “So I figured it out -- what’s the only thing stupider than a HYDRA Goon? A team of HYDRA Goons.” Clint would really like to scoop her up into a hug and whisper assurances against her hair, but Natasha would never accept that, especially not now. So he forces his tone into an irreverent cheer to keep her distracted as he gingerly checks her for injuries. 

Normally at this point, Natasha would say something biting and witty, keeping up her end of the charade. But she’s not talking, and Clint looks up to see her staring at him. “Nat?”

She smiles, something rueful and self-mocking that twists Clint’s insides. “I’m compromised, Clint.” She closes her eyes and leans her head against the wall. “I hallucinated during interrogation,” she states matter-of-factly. “I can no longer ensure that I won’t reveal information, or haven’t already.” 

_Fuck._ Clint immediately begins searching her skin for injection sites -- Clint’s not affected, so the food can’t be drugged, and it has to be drugs. Because Clint refuses to believe in other possibilities. “Was it a good hallucination? Because seriously, you got nothing on the mariachi band I imagined was with us in the clinic in Anchorage.” 

“I saw Coulson,” Natasha says, her voice considering. Clint straightens up. Natasha gazes off beyond his shoulder and continues. “I was staring at the wall. The room was dark and the walls seemed black, almost brown. I saw this man-shaped piece separate itself from the wall and creep along the edges of the room. I tracked it with my eyes, and when it reached the door, it stared straight at me. It was Coulson. I somehow knew that it was. He flashed this bright red color with white spots, just for a second, before turning back into wall-color and swooping out the door.” 

_Son of a bitch._ Clint drags himself to the wall to slouch beside Natasha, giving himself just a little time to close his eyes and feel the relief bubble up from his stomach, _son of a bitch, I’m going to kill you, you magnificent fucker._

He cracks an eye open and sees Natasha looking at him. For all that she’s a superspy, Clint can read her like a book, and beneath her casual gaze he can see she’s shaken up. But the “do not pity Tasha while she’s vulnerable” rule still stands, so Clint flashes her his very best shit-eating grin. “Natasha, light of my life, fire of my soul, you did not hallucinate. What you saw was our dear Philip Coulson in the flesh, and, if you really think about it, in the nude.” 

Natasha glares at him. “Don’t fuck with me, Clint.” 

Clint just laughs and feels something in his chest loosen. “Absolutely no fuckery happening, Tasha. What did I ever tell you about the time I first met Coulson?” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Nothing. SHIELD gossip says he’d been missing for a year when you went off the grid and came back with Coulson in tow.” 

“When I first met him, Coulson was an octopus.” 

“I thought I told you not to fuck with me.” 

“Hand to God, Nat. A giant, eight-legged, scary-ass red and white octopus. He’s lost the legs since then, and I don’t _pretend_ to understand how this works, but any minute now he’ll be sending in the cavalry, because Phil Fucking Coulson is coming to rescue us.” 

Natasha stares at him for a long time. Finally, she huffs and shakes her head. Clint gives a mental whoop of victory, because he’s pretty sure he’s just been graced with a Natasha Romanov Not-Laugh That Totally Counts. “An octopus, huh?” 

“Yup.” 

_“Osminog.”_

_“Da.”_

She huffs again. _“Blyad’.”_

A comfortable warmth spreads through Clint’s chest. “Hey,” he says softly, bumping his shoulder against hers, “we’re gonna make it out of here.”

Natasha doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t move her shoulder either. Clint counts it as a second victory.

Coulson’s cavalry show up thirty minutes later. Right on time.

***

Clint has two cracked ribs, a sprained ankle, and minor internal bleeding. Dr. Aydin explains in slow, deliberate words exactly how Clint should be treating himself. Clint thinks it’s cute the woman still tries.

“Leave me a list of instructions, Dr. Aydin, and I’ll make sure Agent Barton complies,” Coulson says smoothly from the doorway. Dr. Aydin, visibly relieved, nods her consent and slides out the door.

Clint tries to control the freakishly large smile that wants to spread all over his face. “Coulson, how’s my favorite cephalopod?”

“He’d be better if you would refrain from being kidnapped in the future.” Coulson’s eyes twinkle as he walks toward Clint’s bed, and damned if those eyes aren’t the greatest thing Clint’s ever seen.

“You need to stop saving my ass, then. It teaches me there’s no consequences to my actions.”

“I’m inclined to believe that. However, as much as I’d love to continue this banter, I need to borrow you for the moment. Agent Romanov needs to be prepped for surgery, and I think your presence would ease her mind a bit.” 

Right. Natasha’s memories of drugs plus superiors are still mainly of the “bad touch” variety. Clint nods, all humor gone.

Coulson stares at Clint for a moment before collecting the wheelchair from the corner and positioning it by the bed. “She’s getting better, you know. She’s beginning to trust us. We have you to thank for that.”

Clint doesn’t really know what to say. He lowers himself into the chair and lets Coulson push him down the halls. About halfway through, Clint puts a hand on the wheels to stop the chair. “Hey, boss?” Clint asks, tilting his face up to look at Coulson in the eye. “Can I ask you something?”

Coulson meets his gaze steadily. “You already have, but go ahead.”

Clint fumbles for the words. “When Nat...when I called you up, after I found Natasha, and said I wanted to bring her in, why did you...let me?”

“You’re called Hawkeye for a reason, Barton. I trust your eyes.” 

Yeah, sure. Clint fakes a smile and turns back around. 

“Barton.” Clint looks back around, and Coulson is smiling at him, an actual Phil smile that lights up his face. “You saw something of value in an aquarium _octopus._ What’s a rogue Red Room agent when compared to that?”

Clint grins back at him. He sits back in his chair, and they continue down the hall. After a moment, Clint tilts his face again. “Hey, Coulson?”

“Yes, Barton?”

“When you snuck into the HYDRA base, were you naked?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have fifteen minutes to kill, you can listen to Patrick Stewart's dulcet tones narrate a [National Geographic](http://channel.nationalgeographic.com/wild/videos/the-day-octopus/) show about the wonders of the day octopus. (trigger warning for an animal in distress)
> 
> And as a bit of housekeeping, this fic will update every day or every other day until we reach the end. :)


	3. Instincts, Apparently

Clint wakes up the minute he hears the key scratch against the lock. He doesn’t open his eyes and instead burrows deeper into Coulson’s couch. 

A moment later he hears the door swing open and Coulson’s soft steps enter the room. “Barton,” Coulson says, his voice businesslike, “please tell me you’re in my office to hand me your extremely late Form 56-B.”

Clint hides his smile against the soft leather. “Can’t hear you, sir, I’m asleep.” 

“As much as I’d love to point out the logical fallacies in that statement,” Coulson says, “I’m busy, Barton.”

Clint opens his eyes and blinks. “Everything go okay with R&D, boss?” he asks, twisting around. Coulson’s fishing around in the filing cabinet, back turned towards Clint.

“Yes, Barton. I just need to fill out some paperwork and head back on over, so if you don’t have business, let’s do this later.” Coulson closes the filing cabinet, but still doesn’t turn around. 

_Oh._ Clint’s chest clenches, and he forces himself into a sitting position. _Okay._ Clint gets it, he really does. Coulson's coddled him for long enough. He’s surprised, really, that it took this long for Coulson to get tired of him. He stands and moves towards the door. 

Except Coulson still hasn’t turned around. Phil Coulson is a decent man. When he ditches Clint, he’ll explain it calmly and rationally. And he’ll look Clint in the eyes.

Clint breathes deeply and pushes away all of his insecurities into a tiny corner of his brain. He steps forward until he’s standing behind Coulson. “What’s wrong? Can I help?” 

Coulson sighs, the tension going out of his shoulders. “No, Clint. The project R&D was working on exploded, and it just...rattled me.” 

Clint moves closer and places a hand on Coulson’s shoulder. “Sir? Turn around.”

Slowly, Coulson turns. His front is covered in sticky, black smears. His white shirt is one giant, shiny stain, clinging to his body. Dark blotches cover his pants and jacket sleeves. Clint lets his gaze travel up Coulson’s body, meeting his eyes. “You...inked.” 

The corner of Coulson’s mouth quirks. “It’s instinctual, apparently.” He has a smudge by his right eye, obscuring his crow feet. They’re standing very close, Clint realizes suddenly, and he can’t help thinking, _you’re gorgeous._

Coulson frowns. “What?” 

“Uh.” _Shit. Shit fuck shit fuck shit._ Clint takes a step back. 

Coulson presses forward. “Did you just say I’m gorgeous?” 

Clint tries to smile around the pain in his chest. “It’s instinctual, apparently.” Maybe Natasha has a safe house he can hide in for the rest of eternity.

Coulson takes a deep breath. “Clint,” he says in his most _Agent’s Agent_ voice, “are you interested in an intimate relationship with me?” 

_Jesus fucking christ,_ could this hurt worse? “Yeah,” Clint says apologetically, because in for a penny and all that shit. “Oh god, I’m sorry, listen, I’ll talk to Hill about being reass--” 

Coulson kisses him. Coulson is kissing him, _holy shit,_ Coulson is kissing him and it’s hard and deep and the best damn kiss Clint has ever received in his life. They break apart, and Clint’s brain tries frantically to reboot. “What? But...What? And when? And _now?_ ” His voice cracks a little on the last one. 

Coulson grins, breathing hard. “We were kissing, Clint. I would like to kiss you again, if you will let me. And then take you out to dinner. And after five to seven more dinners, if you want to, I’d like to take you home with me, make love to you, and cook you breakfast in the morning.” 

_Oh._ Clint can feel a smile start to grow on his face, without quite understanding how it got there. Coulson places a hand on his cheek. “As to when,” he continues, “there has never been a time when I haven’t thought you were amazing. I was an octopus when I saw you from my tank, stalking Leweski, and I thought you were the most handsome man I had ever seen. It’s been years since I’ve thought something more. 

“And as for now...” The smiles slips from Coulson’s face, slides into something deeper, and Clint stops breathing. “I couldn’t say anything, Clint. There were times I thought I saw something in you, but...I’m your superior. You put your trust in me. I refuse to be the next in a long line of people who have betrayed that trust.” 

Clint stares at him for a long time. This is not what’s supposed to happen. He was being ditched, twice, actually, in the space of five minutes, it’s some kind of record. But this....Clint smiles, then laughs. “You’re crazy,” he tells Phil. He reaches up and grabs Phil by the lapel. “But I’m sure as hell not going to make you see sense.” 

As they kiss again, Clint forces himself to stop thinking. Clint can still feel the doubts creep up in his mind, but he pushes them away. Today, he’s acting on instinct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to say that inking is not actually an instinctual behavior. But what are facts when compared to feels, I ask you?


	4. The Rolodex of a Disney Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mortal peril. (Clint thinks he's going to die. His thoughts may be triggering.)

Clint is sorry. He’s so fucking sorry. 

Clint is floating in a dinghy with a busted engine somewhere in the middle of the goddamned Pacific Ocean. This is day number three and Clint has nothing but a lump on his head and a hole in his shoulder where his tracker should be. Somewhere out there, a Certified Douchebag is sailing away on his mega-yacht instead of lying on his stomach with an arrow through his shoulder, and Clint is going to die. 

He’s so sorry. 

“You’re gonna have to go to Clara’s graduation alone.” Clint’s voice cracks, his dry throat burning. He swallows air and tries again. “I know, she’ll be pissed, so try to talk her down. Nicki wants Legos for her birthday, but not those crappy girly ones, don’t do that to her. And keep an eye on Tasha. She may try to run, but don’t let her. She’ll regret it in the end.” 

He closes his eyes, as if that will stop the sun from beating down on him. “I’m counting on you to fix this shit, you know. So you can’t...you can’t do anything stupid, okay? Okay.” He lies there silently, listening to his heartbeat pulse in his ears. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The boat rocks, jolting Clint into awareness. He sits up and is swamped by vertigo as his vision wipes out. “Fuck-fuck-fuck.” After a scary couple of seconds, his head clears. He looks out around him, but there’s absolutely nothing except the deep water and the brutal sun.

The boat rocks again, but this time the bow veers six inches to the left. (Or port, or whatever.) Slowly, so as to not send his head spinning again, Clint leans over the right side of the boat.

A giant eyeball stares up at him from the water. After a moment, he can discern a massive blue-black head mostly submerged in the water. His eyes slowly track up the body. And keep going. And keep going, until he reaches a fluked tail ten feet wide, flapping lazily against the water.

This may not be the best time to admit this, but Clint is fucking terrified of whales.

“Uh,” he says. “Hey...Shamu. My name is Clint,” because he has experience with this shit and it’s important to get off on the right foot. Or tentacle. Or flipper. 

Shamu nudges the boat lightly with his head. His fucking gigantic head, and Clint needs to stop leaning out of the boat, like now. 

Before he can move, another black shape rises from the water next to Shamu. “ _Jesus._ ” He jumps, wishing so fucking hard he had his bow. “No one told me you were stealthy mutherfuckers.” 

The guy lets out of a shower of water from his blow hole, spraying Clint in gross. “Aw, really? Dick.” Really, he’s just covered in gross now. “Okay, why? Just, just why?” 

Shamu shoves the boat with his head, and the bow shifts to the left again. Moby Dick follows suit and pushes the stern. 

Clint grabs the edges of the dinghy. “Yeah, no, can we not--” They push again, Shamu then Moby Dick, and the boat moves another foot to the left. “You’re moving me,” Clint realizes. They push again. “You know, just leave me. I’m good, I’m fine.” 

They keep pushing. He tries appealing to their...humanity? Whaleity? Mutual mammalian compassion? “I’m a friend. Really, I am, my boyfriend makes me watch _Whale Wars,_ like, all the time. I am a friend of the whales. And I don’t know who has the Disney Princess powers to command you guys, but he’s probably not going to be my friend. This isn’t going to turn out pleasant for me. So please, just leave me, I’d really prefer to...” 

Prefer to what? To die alone of sunstroke? To keep drifting alone, writing imaginary goodbyes to Phil he’ll never get to say? Even Clint can’t believe that. If he had to describe his life choices up to this point, it’d be that he was too damn curious for his own good. He is Clint Barton, and he’s going to live until he figures out what the hell is going on.

He lies down and smiles. “You know what? Knock yourselves out.” 

***

About an hour later, Clint gets slapped in the middle of the chest with a fish. “The fuck?” He pulls himself up on his elbows and sees a dolphin splashing excitedly about five feet away. Seeing Clint, she lifts her head out of the water and chatters. 

“Oh, this is very kind, Flipper,” Clint says, holding the fish up. “But I’m just not feeling sushi, you know?” 

Flipper chatters again insistently. Clint looks down at the fish and can’t help salivating. He didn’t think he had enough water in him to do that anymore. “Fuck it.” He’s eaten worse. 

***

As they scoot along, more sea-mammals come and join them. Clint counts Shamu, Moby Dick, Willy, Flipper, Fudgie, Jonah, Ariel, Fail, and Jasper, because Clint has exhausted all of his ocean-related jokes and that whale has a huge barnacle on its back like the giant pimple Sitwell got in Johannesburg.

“I have a question for you guys. Is it really better down where it’s wetter? ‘Cause i’ve heard you’ve got things going for you -- hot crustacean bands, for one -- but I wanted to verify.”

No one gives him an answer. Jasper and Flipper are playing a game where he lifts her entire body out of the water with his head. It looks fun.

Clint doesn’t know how much longer he can last. 

***

 _“Hold me, like the river Jordan,”_ Clint croaks out. This is it. Clint’s puked out of the last of the fish a while back. Clint doesn’t think he’ll make it to wherever they’re taking him. _“And I will say to thee, you are my friend.”_

The boat stops. Clint only has a moment to wonder before he hears it, the unmistakable thrum of a helicopter. Clint grits his teeth and slowly sits up. On the distance, a black helicopter is flying towards him. The whales and dolphins are swimming around the boat frantically, breaching and blowing and splashing their flukes. 

When the helicopter reaches them, Clint’s captors scatter, unable to take the churning of the water. A rescue operator begins lowering herself from the hovering helicopter. Clint’s ears are throbbing from the noise and it feels like there are needles pushing themselves into his brain, but he scrabbles for a leftover fish bone and brandishes it menacingly. “Stop right there!” he yells, but he doesn’t know if she can hear him.

She pulls a megaphone out from god-knows-where. “STAND DOWN, AGENT BARTON. BRAVO BRAVO FIVE DELTA.” 

Yeah, like that ever works. 

“AGENT COULSON SAYS TO ASK YOU IF JURASSIC PARK III IS A GOOD MOVIE.” 

Clint drops the bone and allows himself to be hoisted away. The fast movements make his head reel, but he needs to hang on just a little longer. When they reach the top, hands grab him and pull him inside. He knows those hands, knows the rough feel of the calluses underneath his fingers, and he grabs blindly until he holds them in his own. “Hey, boss.” 

Clint is safe now. Finally, he can rest.

***

Clint wakes up in his hospital bed. Phil’s there, sitting in a straight-backed chair next to the bed with paperwork in his lap. Clint doesn’t know when Phil’s presence became a guarantee, how Clint’s earned that kind of devotion, but he’s sure not going to question it. 

He wonders if he can lie here for a while, not saying a word, and maybe he can keep staring at Phil for a little longer. But Phil’s always been too observant when it comes to Clint, and he looks up immediately. “Good morning, Barton,” he says, and a soft smile spreads over his face. 

Clint reaches for Phil’s hand. “So you’re my Disney Princess.” 

“I’m afraid so.” Phil pauses. “No, actually, I’m incredibly glad it’s so, because otherwise we never would have found you.” 

“What exactly happened?” 

Phil’s smile twists. “You were missing for three days, Clint. We sent helicopters and boats out on rescue patrols, but no one could find you. I...might have gotten a little upset. I was on a boat, and I was yelling into my comm, _‘Somebody bring me Agent Barton.’_ And then a whale answered me.” 

Clint huffs a laugh. “I thought Agent Coulson doesn’t get upset.”

Phil’s face grew serious. “He does when it involves you.” 

Clint stares at Phil, and they stay like that for a while, just looking at each other. Clint’s cooped up in medical with severe sunburns all over his body and an IV pumping him with fluids, but damn if this isn’t the best Clint has felt in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Jasper and Flipper](http://animalwise.org/2011/12/14/an-uplifting-dolphin-story-literally/), because _that's actually a thing._


	5. Octopus Shawarma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for perceived character death, shock, grief and mourning.

They don’t talk while they eat. They don’t talk and Clint is so fucking thankful, because he needs this, just needs five more fucking minutes before having to face the fact that he nearly destroyed the entire world. 

He polishes off that lamb thing and grabs whatever’s nearest. He slides the red basket close to him and peers in, ready to stuff his face. 

Horror floods his body. It’s octopus. Grilled octopus legs tossed with what is, no doubt, some very tasty yogurt sauce, and _oh god._ It’s dead octopus, and suddenly everything he’s been willfully ignoring swamps over him, and he _knows._

“Natasha.” He says it softly, eyes still locked on the basket.

He hears her swear, softly and coarsely in Russian, and the basket disappears from his view. The image stays with him, though, and he can feel the panic begin to rise in his blood. “Tell me.”

“Clint.”

“Tell me.”

Fingers grasp under his chin, and his face is wrenched up to meet Natasha’s. “Loki killed him.” Clint huffs a sob and looks away. “No,” Natasha says simply, and her fingers tighten until he looks at her again. “No. Loki stabbed him through the chest with his spear. Did you hear me, Clint? _Loki killed him,_ not you.” 

Clint jerks away, scrambles upright, and _oh hey, there are people here, other people exist in the world._ He runs outside, feeling the cold night air shock him. 

Phil Coulson is dead.

They still had another episode of _The Blue Planet_ to watch. There was nothing to do in the Pegasus research facility, so they were working their way through the boxed set. 

If Clint closes his eyes, he can see him. Sprawled across the passenger seat on the drive to New Mexico, making a mess of powdered donuts. Ink-smudged and gorgeous and looking at Clint softly, like he was something precious to protect. Clint can remember perfectly the first time he saw Phil, human Phil, smug and sitting next to his hospital bed, not a scratch on him.

There’s a trash can nearby. Clint wonders if he’ll feel better if he pukes in it.

Loki’s spear. Could there be a more intimate way to rip Phil away from him? The same spear that snatched Clint’s brain, powered by that damn Tesseract, taunting Clint for weeks before and enthralling him after. Clint feels like he knows everything about the glowing cube, magic but also science, gamma rays and ultraviolet light and microwaves --

The world freezes. 

No.

No, it can’t be that easy.

“Clint.” Natasha’s voice rings quietly behind him. 

He turns around. He knows it’s on his face, knows she can read every thought he has. “Nat,” he pleads, because he doesn’t think he can say it, force it out in the open where reality can crush it.

Her eyes grow wide. “Are you sure?”

“No.” That, for some reason, seems to convince her, and she brings a hand to her mouth. “Please, Nat. _Please._ ”

After a moment’s hesitation, she steps forward, reaching into one of her pockets. She pulls out a small burner phone and places it in Clint’s hands. “You check in every thirty minutes. Do not disable the GPS function. If it stops transmitting or you miss a check-in, I will come after you. After two hours, I’m pulling you, no exceptions.”

Clint lets out his breath. “God, Tasha-- _thank you._ ”

Her eyes grow bright. “Go.”

***

Clint drops down from the ceiling. Light from the hallway filters through the window, giving Clint just enough visibility to make out the science equipment piled on top of tables. 

He hears a knocking from behind, steady and insistent. He turns slowly, his heart in his throat. A large aquarium tank is sitting on a counter against the far wall, and squished in that tank is an octopus, flashing bright colors and banging against the glass with a rock. Clint’s walking before he understands he’s moving, and then he’s running, and then he’s standing, hands flattened against glass where tentacles press themselves on the other side. 

Phil is beautiful. His skin sweeps from color to color, sliding from red to a deep green to bluish-white. From this angle, he looks made of legs, twisting in the water, curling around the corners of the tank. He lifts his head up and Clint can look in his eyes. This should be weird, but Phil looks just like Clint remembers him, all those years ago. He looks like home.

“God, Phil,” he whispers.

Phil flails, more frantic than before. He thrusts a tentacle at the glass, right at Clint’s heart. 

Clint reaches up a hand and spreads it against the glass, wishing he could curl it around Phil’s leg. “Mission accomplished, boss. The world’s safe, Loki’s in custody. I’m...I’m alive.” He smiles weakly. 

Phil calms down, quieting his tentacles and turning a vibrant red with white spots. Clint strokes his hands up and down the wall of the tank. “Thought I lost you,” he mutters. “Natasha said Loki stabbed you in the heart and...people don’t come back from that, Phil.” A choked sound comes somewhere from Clint’s throat, and he realizes it’s a laugh. “People don’t, but apparently genetically modified were-octopuses do?”

Phil lifts his left legs in what can only be a shrug. Clint laughs fully this time. “It’s Tesseract energy. What we found in the warehouse, what Leweski used on you -- old HYDRA Tesseract batteries. So, you get exposed, nanotech switches on, and human cells turns into octopus cells. _Perfectly healthy octopus cells._ Loki’s spear was basically a giant Phil-healing stick. Which he then proceeded to stab you with.” Clint laughs again, doubles over from the force of it. 

When he stands back up, Phil’s eyes are on him, measured and steady. Clint stares back, stares at his impossible, perfect octopus. 

“I love you,” Clint says, a grin spreading on his face. 

Phil swells, settles into a dark brown with white spots. _I love you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends Clint and Phil's second crazy adventure. The fic and this chapter in particular were inspired by a dish from[ this experimental restaurant](http://www.piccolompls.com/), which I stumbled upon for _purely incidental reasons._
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, kudo'd, and commented. You guys are the best. There's probably another fic hidden in here somewhere, but until then, I hope I'll see you around!

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: Greeniron has made incredible [ podfic ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/48810) of this entire series. You need to listen to it. It's basically perfect.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Octopus Shawarma and Other Clues Clint Barton Has Lost Control of His Life [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/856509) by [greeniron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeniron/pseuds/greeniron), [LinguisticJubilee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguisticJubilee/pseuds/LinguisticJubilee)




End file.
